Clouds in the valley...

F or two months, I halted – Ankle broken, ligament tore, I stared out at my garden The glass window as if framing A painting alive – My garden growing From an impressionist komorebi Balancing light and dark To an unkempt surreal Dali’s dream I waited, and waited   Today, I let the artist in me Come out with freedom at last First I tried to trim, But it was fighting a savage beast That had grown beyond control Like Wain’s cats in shades of green; I had worked for months To grow these plants, pots everywhere But these couldn’t sustain: I had an epiphany in the dewy grass of dawn   There is a stage to grow, Then there is a stage to contain Like Shiva’s dance. Sometimes. Chaos needs to be collapsed in a bottle Tendrils need to be tethered. As if the third eye opened I cut through the undergrowth Uprooting weeds, hacking months Bleeding inside, the growth I spurred Was culled, as I become the monster in turn   R...

  These days, Every evening feels Like a filled-up page, I don’t care to look at the words The notes or the scribbles Only that, the pages are filled.   There is little space left To doodle a smiley here Squiggle, or make an ink devil there There is some space between the lines And some along the margins Ah - Pure filtered space of gold   Alas, it takes that much ink To want to write a single word Nor is there time   - It is now alone I understand the joys of Fermat: Proof that nothing needs be proved   All the answers, the poems The proofs, and promises Are all within us Sometimes, the margins of life Are too narrow to contain All that we cannot say   Perhaps now, in the gold dust of time We will realise There is not much need to say The theorems will be proved Sometimes, we need to shut these notebooks And be proud of the old quiet library…   30 th Jan 2026   Pierre de Fe...

An old friend from long ago Sent a sudden photo – Rows of temporary stalls Decking dusty lanes Bound with books, Ah - Winter’s bookfair Where you can smell the fresh print In every pixel   But emptiness descends As I realise This distance today – This was where growing up began This was where unaffordable glossy books Could be touched and felt; Rupa, Oxford, Ananda Names that became faithful companions Ready to talk to you Even today…   I feel guilty That old friends Are still turning up At the cross-roads of time While I, snobbish, arrogant Chose to not return   ‘Why do you despair?’ the books ask ‘Is there still love For cream page and black print?’ I nod ‘Is there still the same anticipation Of holding an unseen volume? Of course, ‘’Then where have you changed? It is just that You are taking your time Not that you are late!’   But I had not attended For ages Unbiased by human emotion...

  Alas - The white blossom I had considered The sacred Brahma Kamal Turned out to be something else – Not a Himalayan wonder But a Mesoamerican plant   Now it makes sense – The rubbery leaves like cactus The resilience to grow Whereas the treasure I seek – Does it grow out of grace Wherever glacial purity Inspires a wizened land?   Its blossom though Is a wonder too – pure white Peeping behind emerald leaves And just as rare – A visitor of a single night Miss-me-and-I-have-gone Far beyond human eyes   Perhaps, it is this rarity That turns Queen to God Asking its subjects To be worthy of something more; But no, they are not the same And I dismayed Have lost a piece of Himalayan dream   Where from the high altitudes The white lotus Comes to me, carrying Memories of the mountains Where Brahma-loka meets Kailash In blinding white Faraway from this earth of red   But as I gaze, it whispers with the breeze It’s a blessing, don’t you see? For you need to pick your...

  Not Alibaug, you had asked Let’s head farther north So we headed to the solitude That was Kihim – Very different, a receding sea But a sheen of salty loneliness Coating the eye of the beach And hardly a soul   Who wanted the caress of sea On barefoot walks When there were thrashing waves And golden sands of Alibaug? Kihim was the quitter sibling Reticent, downplayed The one who never regaled Relatives wanting to be impressed   But we were old, weren’t we? You had ensured our Autumns Came early in Spring And so, we had no time for Horse drawn carriages, Or judging kinsmen We were free to choose aloneness Quietude, silence   Unperturbed even by The thrash of seas on sand Just golden sunset silence Watching the oranges Melt into the shimmering Wetness of the teary beach Little realising, - This was the farthest north we’d ever go     We have transcended the seasons now Would you sti...

We always skipped Karnala – ‘It is so close, We can go there anytime’ Only that, we never did We troubadours Who went far south To the borderlands Ignored the backyard; Of course, Karnala was close We could go there anytime   The Sanctuary’s Thums up rock Used to beckon Like a sepia ad From the faded 90s Today, our travels Seem like that faded ad Lost in the neon digital age; Have we grown that old? Or is it that age has travelled Faster than the speed of time   Today, when I look at a faded map I can see Karnala - It has gone so far away Just as it has gone too far back That no one remembers - Once upon a time There was a rock to be scaled Yet, when the rains arrive, They whisper, It is still close, We were always there all this time…  

Can you feel Abyssinian winds That power on these sails? They whisper of the Siddis’ dreams - Their mighty warrior tales   Tales of trailing sombre winds The monsoon winds that blow – And in those winds, the song of swords That from the Deccan flow   Swords of Mughal, Maratha’s might To take Janjira for a while Yet, the unbeaten flag of freedom flies Even today upon the isle   History floats upon these boats A bit of Kusha-dwipa stays Upon the Arabian seas of blue Lost tales of yesterdays   You might wonder, how could they Come this far and rise? The isle smiles, and wisely says To the mainland, point your eyes   These mighty ghats have sheltered men Who were brave to risk their fate Europe, Asia, Africa The Sahyadri’s where they met   And if these hills could have a heart That Continents could flock, What surprise that on this isle The monsoons came to dock…   23 rd Jan, 2026 ...

  At Kanheri, The caves were what we always saw Until that day, walking to the top, We saw all of Salsette island, A sprawling city, Topped by a golden pagoda   This was the Buddha Of the future: Yesterday’s stone turned to gold Statue turned to stupa While we connected this flow Of time, and space   I see monsoon colours in your eyes As you smile, disagree – There need be no continuity, you say We are but specks of loneliness Boats of existence Floating from isle to isle   Sometimes, caves of distant past Sometimes, ashes of the Lord We, who cannot feel The streams within us What rivers of time Do we claim to join in this cosmic ocean? Indigo clouds arise Under the moist eyes of the Buddha For a brief moment, You and I, still islands Form an archipelago In the sea of existence…   20 th Jan, 2026   Salsette Island, in Maharashtra, India, is a densely populated island forming the core...

  That day, at Kanheri When I saw you overlooking the ridge, I had a realisation Upon these lonely hills The past before us – These meditating caves The guardian deities And a forgiving Buddha   Blue clouds, that day, on the horizon Golden wildflowers Basalt dark, Kirshna Giri Overrun in rain fed greens The smell of fecund monsoon The fresh flavours of morning And wild waterfalls reminding The churn of eternity   And you, in front Lost, just like me, Looking into the future For ahead lay a sleepless city Thoroughfares of commotion, Skyscrapers of humanity And towering over them all A golden pagoda   The same Buddha behind us Now reincarnated in front Despite all liberations - Rock turned to gold Statue turned to stupa There, his ashes preach Where his stony silence Stays behind, asking us     ‘Did we understand his lessons?’ Perhaps he smiles, When he sees us You and I unknowing...

  Sadashiv stares at us With closed eyes ‘Uma, you whisper’ in the cave, ‘The Creator; Rudra – the indignant, the destroyer And the balance, in the middle – Tatpurush, calm and quiet; Can you feel the flow of life? Creation, preservation, destruction, Past, present, future, That wasn’t, that is, that will be…’ You explain the gods as if You were there When they were born Or when they were Revered out of stone here   You who like stories Would love this flow, But I am a poor man, Who has no epics to narrate I have no rivers to guide, I sit in my tiny meadow And look at blades of grass On sunny days ‘Why do you need this circle?’ I protest ‘Why this ebb and rise Why can’t we merely exist? None of past or future But timelessness, without a cage We are just there, a boat Floating, in a sea of eternal chaos’   You stare at me The ignorant unread one, How can he be so wise? Perhaps the wisdom Is etern...